


They want to buy my pride but that just ain't up for sale

by LaStrega



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bisexual Harry Potter, Gender Rolls are the the worst kind of bread, Healing, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Honestly even snails move faster than these two in this fic, Mother Hen Harry, Moving On, Multi, Parselmouth Harry Potter, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sadness, Sassy Harry, Slow Build Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Slow Burn, Smol First Years, Very minor George Weasley/Harry Potter (it's one kiss), Zacharias Smith is a bigoted asshat in this (where is he not)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2018-09-25 20:32:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9842615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaStrega/pseuds/LaStrega
Summary: After the war Harry and his friends decide to clear up Grimmauld Place, remove the dust and the bad memories.In Sirius' room, cluttered with still posters and Gryffindor paraphernalia Harry finds a bottle of purple nail polish and an old leather jacket that still has the smell of dog and cigarettes hidden in its well worn folds.From this moment on Harry does something he has never done before:He slowly but surely starts to shake and break the expectations the whole Wizarding World has of him, chips away at the burden of being a hero on his shoulders and decides to be free.Even if being free means breaking some gender roles.But like Hermione in her wisdom once said: It's fun isn't it? Breaking the rules?!





	1. Cleaning up the memories

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JulietsEmoPhase](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JulietsEmoPhase/gifts), [parseltonquinq](https://archiveofourown.org/users/parseltonquinq/gifts).



> Hey and welcome to my first ever fan fiction I post on this website :) It sort of is my pet project and I am very much looking forward to your comments
> 
> I was inspired to write this after I posted a little thing over on my tumblr @elsa-the-snowbitch
> 
> Hopefully you'll like this little project of mine :)
> 
> This is especially for Leah (parseltonquinq)  
> While my darling Julesbug is one of the most wonderful writers and people I have gotten the honour to know, Leah was the one who introduced me into the Drarry fandom and this is a huge thank you to her and her wonderful writing and constant support

Grimmauld Place smells like memories, mildew and magic.

It is strange being back here after all this time. 

It has been a year and already the dust is so thick on the surfaces of cups, tables and random trinkets mostly saturated with Dark energy that Harry could draw a picture into it, a shadow of a smile playing along his mouth as he remembers a little boy drawing a birthday cake into the dusty floor of a lighthouse on a rock in the wild sea.

Hermione is clutching Ron’s hand, she too broken, a scar marring her forearm; his legs littered with the marks of memories, his eyes still haunted by the death of his brother.

They have each other and Harry is glad that they are still by his side.  
He does try to express his feelings and his gratitude by carefully placing one hand onto Hermione’s shoulder because she is still sensitive to touch and hugging Ron who is almost a foot taller than him but still collapses into Harry’s embrace and stays there for several silent but treasured moments.

He carefully plucks a spider from his hair and sets it onto the windowsill where it spins its net.  
Ron shudders behind him and Harry has to grin although it is a cracked, lopsided one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

Some things never change.

Memories of laughter and hugs linger here, memories of pain and darkness, of names burnt off a carpet and Harry has to blink because he still feels warm hands lingering on his shoulders, still hears barking laughter.

Hermione touches his arm, her fingers soft and shaking but reassuring and he pulls himself out of the guilt that threatened to swallow him whole. 

Sometimes when it gets too much and the darkness in their minds is too cloying, they cuddle up together, all in one bed, Ron very gently holding Hermione and Hermione’s hand in Harry’s. It anchors and calms Harry more than he is willing to admit.

Cleaning up the house is therapeutic for Harry and it seems to be therapeutic for Ron and Hermione as well.

Ginny joins them, still fiery, still wonderful even though she seems thinner, the bags under her eyes still prominent. But she is willing to help, bringing Neville and artistic Dean and a very enthusiastic Seamus along.  
And Luna. Sweet and gentle Luna with her long hair up in a very messy bun and radishes in her hair, fingers already marred with green and red paint.  
Her hugs still feel the same, reassuring and slightly flighty, like her.

Ginny and her work like a charm, like clockwork while painting the walls with blossoming flowers as red as Ginny’s hair and Harry does not feel jealous. It’s just strange to let something go, something so easy and normal and something so warm and familiar.  
But Ginny is smiling when Luna dabs a blob of green paint onto the tip of her nose and laughing harder than she has ever done with Harry and he is just happy she found someone better than him. Someone more suited.

Harry watches them all, Dean and Seamus jokingly dancing along to a slow song on the radio, laughing and smiling, close and fitting like two puzzle pieces, Ginny watching Luna with warmth in her eyes while they dust off a cabinet and Ron helping Hermione lift an especially heavy set of enchanted chandeliers, Neville heatedly arguing with the portrait of old Mrs. Black and making her shut up for the first time and suddenly a fierce warmth fills Harry, happiness roaring through him after all these dark moments he spent alone in his mind, trapped between shocked faces, screams, fire and pain. 

But now there is love in his heart. It’s so much that it envelops him and threatens to keel him over. They didn’t have to come but they all did. For him and for themselves, for each other.

Sirius’ room is the hardest. They leave most of it untouched, especially the posters that cannot be removed. It still smells like him and Harry spends a night between the covers, burying his nose in the fading scent, his eyes burning with unshed tears. 

He hasn’t cried since the end of the war. 

It is as if his body is tired of crying, has out-cried itself.  
Sometimes he wishes he could cry.  
He feels broken and strange, hasn’t even cried at Fred’s funeral despite guilt and sadness clogging his throat, hasn’t cried when Tonks and Remus were buried side by side, Andromeda holding Teddy, almost clutching him as if she could lose him like she lost her daughter and her son-in-law.

Sleep does not come easy that night and when it does, it is almost morning, the sun touching his eyelids, prodding him awake. Crookshanks is lying beside him, purring sleepily.  
Harry is for some reason his favourite human even preferred to Hermione which sometimes makes her roll her eyes in fond exasperation every time Crookshanks yet again tries to groom Harry’s hair into some semblance of order.

He gently shoves the tomcat from his lap, receiving a protesting noise for his efforts and stretches carefully; rooting through the bedside drawers for a brush when suddenly his fingers close around a small container of some kind. Carefully he fishes it out and stares at a bottle of purple nail polish, dried out but still glinting at him as if it’s winking, daring him to something.

He has only ever seen pictures of Sirius with black nail polish, expertly applied but this certain purple shade is something his godfather would have worn too, smiling a dazzling and devastating smile.  
It’s dried out, completely unusable but Harry knows an expert in cosmetic charms, so he trudges down the stairs, bottle of nail polish clutched in his shaky fingers and something like hope and light in his butterfly heart.

Ginny is already awake, almost drowning in green pyjamas that are a bit too big for her slim frame and fiddling with the sleeves of a cardigan that is clearly Luna’s because Ginny does not own anything so whimsical.  
Her smile is as shaky as Harry’s fingers but her eyes are as fierce as ever.  
“Already awake too?” she asks him, her voice tinged with the remnants of sleep and warmth. 

Harry nods and fixes her a cup of tea, setting the small bottle down onto the counter. It feels strange parting with it, as if the touch of his godfather still lingers.  
“You know how they get sometimes. The nightmares. Tonight I dreamed of Sirius if I even dreamed at all. Sleep isn’t very easy,” he confesses and slides her favourite cup over to her, pouring himself a cup as well and cradling it with scarred, thin fingers, the warmth seeping into his hands. He loses himself in the warm, woodsy colour of the tea for a few moments before his eyes snap back to Ginny.  
Sometimes he has these moments. Losing himself in small details and having trouble to find the way back.

She nods and picks up the bottle of nail polish, rotating it in the light.  
“Where did you find this?” she asks and looks at him through the steady steam of the tea. “Sirius’ room?”


	2. Let her go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry learns that sometimes to move forward, you just need to let go of something old and cherished and relearns another thing that he thought he'd forgotten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much for the wonderful reviews and the kind words you sent me :)  
> I really cherish them a lot <3
> 
> This chapter is kind of dedicated to my ex because she taught me the art of letting go

Ginny casts a nifty charm, refreshing the polish and making it bottomless, then she gently unscrews it and begins applying the polish to Harry’s nails, her strokes careful and measured. Hair the colour of leaves in autumn falls across her shoulder and her brown eyes are bright with concentration as she looks at his nails; his shaky, scarred hands; the steam of the tea curling against her face like the touch of a lover.

Harry is still a little bit in love with her but he knows that she is not his to take care of anymore. She can take care of herself just fine but it was nice to be by her side if only for a little while. Something inside him crumbles apart at that. Memories of a smile like sunlight, of a kiss like a storm, of magic fizzing beside his own. It is a nostalgic little piece and it leaves his heart raw, soft and light. “I am happy for you,” he whispers, his voice vibrating between them and his eyes trained to his left hand. _I must not tell lies_ is still scrawled across the back of his hand, a reminder of resistance, and an oath that he wants to keep. “She is better for you than I ever was.”

Her eyes snap up to his own and something flickers in them, something regretful but warm and she gently strokes over a scar on his right ring finger, the reminder of one time he cut himself on a can of tomato soup. “For a time you were my hero, Harry,” she says, her voice soft as she closes the bottle of polish and sets off to prepare breakfast for everyone. “You are heroic in soft and silent ways, almost too humble but that is what I loved about you. We are growing older, wiser and I think it is time that we both accept that we are better off being friends.”

Harry watches her beating eggs into a pan and nods, his eyes still trained onto his nails, now shimmering with purple nail polish. They have grown long like his hair that he keeps out of his eyes with a bun. But even now his hair decides to stay rebellious and curls around his ear, tickles his cheeks cheekily, escaping the hair tie. “Yes,” he finally answers after a beat of silence and joins her in preparing breakfast, his dry nails glinting up at him. “You are still my little sister above everything.”

She laughs and bumps her hip against his and it only hurts a little bit as he laughs and casts a charm to keep the toast warm. He is quite apt at household charms after spending a good year in a tent hunting Horcruxes and keeping Hermione and Ron from ripping each other apart, so he helps her wherever he can and cannot help thinking of Petunia and Dudley, even about Vernon who is still stuck in his firm, still firmly believing that magic is wrong.

Dudley and he have been exchanging letters after the war, sent via regular post because Harry cannot bear seeing an owl landing next to him at the moment and Dudley still thinks that it is just strange to receive a letter via bird despite Harry telling him about the concept of messenger pigeons. It is nice to have part of his blood family still remaining even when Hermione chided him about being too forgiving.

The others slowly join them, Luna slotting in next to Ginny, her head on Ginny’s shoulder and her pale arm around the slim waist, blinking sleepily and smiling at Harry. “Oh that colour suits your eyes!” she exclaims and steals a rasher of beacon off Ginny’s plate.

Dean is the second to notice it, his artistic eyes scrutinising Harry’s fingers and finally he smiles so widely that his eyes crinkle. “Wow, Harry, that looks so nice,”, he mumbles around a piece of toast and a kiss from Seamus.

Harry feels grateful for them and for the way he is just accepted as a guy who wears nail polish and a sweater too large for his rather stunted frame of 5’4”. It is frayed at the edges and the cuffs hanging over Harry’s slim fingers and still smells of tea, old books and Remus. Andromeda had gifted it to him after the funeral, her hands shaking and her eyes still wet with tears, the item of clothing in her hands only a bit too colourful for such a sombre occasion. “He would have wanted you to have it,” she had said, Teddy clinging to her; fast asleep. Now it falls just short of his knees, the soft material swishing around them as he gets up to help Hermione in the kitchen.

He alerts her of his presence with a soft cough and she does not start as much as she would have done just a month ago, smiling gratefully as he helps her cleaning the plates, the nail polish looking almost a bit posh in the low light of the kitchen. She carefully touches his arm, squeezing it reassuringly and her eyes are warm and she even laughs as Ron happily exclaims over his plateful of bacon.

After breakfast they continue cleaning up, Harry in an apron and his hair tied back and feeling very much like Sophie cleaning up the mess Howl left behind when there is a shout in the room behind him. He reacts on autopilot; barging in with his wand in hand, ready to whip out a spell, his head roaring with a thousand possibilities and anxieties and everybody stares at him but Luna, whose calm gaze is fixated onto the snake in the room.

It is a garden snake, curled up in a seat by the corner. It is bigger than they normally would be but this is a house full of dark magic, so he isn't very much worried about it as it lazily stretches out its tongue and tastes the air, its gaze trained onto him.

"Leave, please," he tells it, ignoring the shocked gasp of Neville and how much Ginny pales. He is almost sure that the snake understands him but this cannot be, can it? He lost the ability with Voldemort's death, he knows it. It is too dark to keep, too dangerous. "This is my home now. You can stay in the gardens and hunt down mice if you'd like but not inside the house." 

Even if, against all logic, it understands him, he should at least be polite to it.

The snake gives a languid hiss that almost sounds like an affirmation and slides off the chair, through the door and into the garden and he just stares, his eyes wide and his whole body trembling.

"Harry...," Hermione whispers haltingly, "you just spoke Parseltongue."


	3. They used to shout my name, now they whisper it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry attends the Hearing of the Malfoys and gains a new status that he truly did not expect and did not want to have but when did that ever stop a true Gryffindor with certain tendencies of another House?
> 
> After the Hearing tentative bridges are beginning to emerge out of the ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoo boy, this chapter
> 
> I am really sorry to have posted so late, real life and anxiety and other fun stuff got in the way
> 
> And well, I sort of kind of didn't tell the truth? A certain person will appear a bit earlier than I originally planned but well, that happens sometimes
> 
> I am really anxious about this chapter because of the Ministry and my portrayal of some people from Harry's point of view, but I hope you like it :)
> 
> It is also dedicated to Lightning on the Wave on fan fiction.net for their wonderful portrayal of Harry and the concept of warrior bells in this piece of fiction is a small nod to their hauntingly beautiful epic that is the Sacrifices Arc
> 
> (honestly go read it)

The halls of the Ministry of Magic are almost eerily silent when Harry steps foot into them, accompanied by Arthur Weasley, constant protector and his father in all but blood and the tall, imposing figure of Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt, features composed and calm, his eyes trained straight ahead, the purple robes with golden applications swirling around his ankles in a manner that reminds Harry of Professor Snape and he has to swallow, to clench his fingers. The oily eyes are still burned into his mind, looking at his own in silent desperation.

He takes a deep breath, hears the stones Luna has braided into his hair this morning give a shimmering, bell-like sound but he is not on a war path, so they are just regular minerals that she has adorned the braids coiled into a surprisingly neat bun with, her eyes very focused and her smile gentle and warm, her fingers soft on his scalp.

Despite everything she had gone through, she is still so bright, so full of wonder.

It gives him hope and a fierce determination to keep it that way.

So that she and Ginny can be happy together in a future he helped create. 

“For protection,” she had whispered, stroking his cheek in a way that made him close his eyes and lean into the touch. “And for clarity. For level-headedness. You are already kind but these are for understanding”, she’d continued and given his hand a final reassuring squeeze.

Another deep breath and he unclenches his fingers, gently rotating them, the silver bracelet Hermione had given him glinting in the light and he feels reassured.

The letter had arrived at Grimmauld as no surprise after the (what they all call it) Snake Incident, inviting, commanding him to attend the Hearing of the Malfoy family that he has volunteered to be a prime witness in. Narcissa Malfoy saved his life, Draco Malfoy did not rat him out to Bellatrix even though she would have called Tom to the Manor in an instant to kill them all.

So Harry has done what Harry always does and responded when Minister Shacklebolt had asked for anyone who would be a witness in this case.

The morning before the Hearing had been very sombre, Hermione looking at everything and nothing at once, absentmindedly scratching her arm with the scar depicting her as what she is in the eyes of blood purists like good old Tom, Ron’s marked arms wrapped around her, his own face pale and drawn. Neville had been almost too quiet, stirring his tea.

But they had all smiled at Harry, adorning him with symbols of their love, their reassurance.

Ron’s shirt and Hermione’s bracelet; Luna’s stones in his hair and a fierce hug from Ginny, the incantation of the Bat Boogey hex whispered into his ear; green fire in a miniscule jar hanging from his neck from Seamus and a blob of paint forming a lion on his wrist from Dean; a small plant stuffed into Harry’s pocket by Neville with a shy smile and a gentle pat of his shoulder.

He had chosen to wear Remus’ jumper again today, adorned with a brooch that once belonged to his mother, given to him in a small package sent by aunt Petunia shortly after the war. It is a small white bird made of enamel with startlingly green eyes, hidden beneath the black leather jacket he had found in Sirius’ wardrobe the morning of the trial.

It still smells like his godfather and it tugs and tears at the strings of his heart but it does not make him cry. He wears his father’s glasses and his black hair, has his mother’s eyes and her gentle smile, her forgiving nature. His nails still glint with purple nail polish and remind him that he carries them all with him now, his heart pounding in his ears as the stop in front of the doors of the halls Harry knows better than he should.

It will not be easy. Nothing ever is easy for him but he does what he does best.

He walks into the grand room, into the cubicle that will make sure he does not lie or attempt anything unfortunate with the hawthorn wand pulsating in his left sleeve, almost like a wild cat, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice.

His old wand, holly and phoenix feather is resting in his jean pocket, a calm beat against his right leg and it calms him down more than he wants to admit when he sees the Malfoys stepping into the room, paler than usual but still looking prouder than they have the right to look, a close knit bond, a family that sticks together even though everyone is against them.

Malfoy junior looks withdrawn and tired, a washed out version of his former snarky self but when he sees Harry in the stands, his eyes briefly widen before he settles into the sneer that looks so much more natural on his face than the paleness, the shutters in front of his eyes. 

 _Draco_ Harry reminds himself and feels the reassuring weight of the hawthorn wand while Minister Shacklebolt opens the Hearing and he is called forth as prime witness.

He is aware that everyone is looking at him and about the whispers that arise as he gets up and steps forward. One of them is new. _Parselmouth_ , it hisses, _Dark wizard_.

Harry refrains from rolling his eyes. He has defeated the darkest wizard of their lifetime and still they are ready to turn on him the first chance they get.

So he holds his head up high and does not flinch when the squat, brown haired assistant who is as tall as Harry administers the Veritaserum and nods once before he lets Harry step fully into the witness stand, where the interrogation begins.

Harry answers all the questions to test the Veritaserum truthfully and then the real trial begins, something he has been dreading almost as much as going to bed and fearing for what dreams may come at night, what demons would hunt him down in his sleep.

With each word he says he can see them almost relaxing, almost breathing with the knowledge that they may not have to rot behind bars chased by their fears and regrets. Narcissa Malfoy's hand is tightening on the shoulder of her son, as Harry recalls what happened at the manor, her husband interlacing their fingers as Harry speaks about how she lied to _Voldemort_ about him being dead.

When it comes to Malfoy, the Malfoy who had taunted Harry as long as their life in Hogwarts had gone, the boy, no, the young man is pale, paler than snow, his fingers slightly shaking in the cuffs, the movement so minuscule that Harry almost misses it. But he notices and it steels his resolve once more as he opens his mouth for the last time.

"Malfoy... Draco is a classmate of mine as you know", he begins and can almost feel the icy gaze snapping up and observing him warily. "He was forced to kill Professor Dumbledore and let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts because otherwise old Tom would have killed his family. Tortured them in front of his very eyes. Draco Malfoy is by no means innocent, but he was coerced, he was a boy who got roped into something he didn't know would cost so much," Harry rallies on, his voice calm and collected as he produces the hawthorn wand from his sleeve with a gasp of the crowd. "This was Draco Malfoy's wand. It belongs to me as I defeated him in the Manor but there is something interesting about it. Mr. Ollivander has told me not too long ago that a wand with a core of unicorn hair was one which was the most difficult to turn to dark arts. I plead not guilty but to put him on probation within the grounds of Hogwarts as a student."

Whispers break out again and an old witch with impressive silver hair is looking down at Harry with eyes like a hawk, sharp and calculating and then she nods, looking satisfied. Harry takes a shaky breath and sits back down again but he is held up by a man with dark hair and dark eyes, his gaze just as sharp as the woman before him and very attractive if you ask Harry but nobody would ask him (and probably shouldn't).

"You are a Parselmouth, Mister Potter," tall, dark and handsome says, his voice reverberating around the room, commanding everyone's attention. "You are classified as having a Dark gift and therefore you could be biased toward people like the Malfoys."

Harry remains calm, although his nails are digging into the heels of his palm.  _Breathe in, breathe out_ he commands himself, before he looks at the man who has lost many numbers in his book. Lily's brooch is pressing against his chest, almost like a reassuring touch and he speaks again, his voice just a little shaky. 

"Sir," he begins, anxiety unfurling in his veins, followed by anger and the gentle brush of Luna's beads against the nape of his neck. "I lost friends in the war, my parents, people and magical creatures I cared about. I still care about. I am only here to speak for a woman who lied to the most dangerous wizard of our generation and the young man who did not betray me to his aunt. Yes, I may have a talent that one would call 'Dark' but a good friend of my father was a werewolf and he was forced to quit his job, my.. my godfather was unjustly convicted and spent 12 years in Azkaban. I am Harry Potter. I do not like using my name like this but I will have to if I must. With the help of countless courageous people and magical creatures alike _I_ defeated Voldemort. If you want to put me into the same category as a man I would have called uncle and the one person I could have grown up with, do it. But remember who you are talking to."

The whole courtroom is silent, staring at him, especially Malfoy who looks like he is seconds away from smirking or hitting Harry. There is an odd look in his eyes and Harry remembers that his magic is prone to crackle underneath his skin ever since the Horcrux has vanished.

He takes another deep breath and sits back down, ignores the green flames that seem to have migrated from the tiny jar around his neck to the tips of his fingers and he briefly has to chuckle because he remembers a picture of the wizards of old and if he looks like them now. Another and he is back in the courtroom where the judges decide over the fate of the Malfoys.

Harry's fingers are still shaking but no longer shimmering green as they announce the verdict.

House arrest for Lucius Malfoy under Auror supervision 24/7 as well as the equivalent of a magical ankle bracelet, Narcissa Malfoy receives freedom under probation and Malfoy is told to go to Hogwarts for their eighth year, an idea they had to rehabilitate the students into the school and repeat all the stuff they have missed because there was a war raging inside the walls of the castle.

Harry gets up at last and wants to leave the court room but he hears a voice behind him.

It is Malfoy.

Calling his name.

Harry stops and turns around, taking in the tired eyes, the dark rings underneath them, the meticulously neat hair and nails. Malfoy is a almost a head taller than Harry but he looks so withdrawn and different from the snark of their youth before everything burned.

"I wanted to thank you. For what you did for my maman," he says and his voice is oddly calm, not biting, not insulting. Just tired. "You saved us from ruin and scorn. Typical. Not stopping to be a hero even for someone you hate."

Before Harry can say anything, Malfoy goes back to his parents, his father's hand on his shoulder and his mother squeezing his hand, before they swirl away with a portkey and a team of Aurors.

In Harry's sleeve, the hawthorn wand gives a single throb, almost like a heartbeat.


	4. Death does not discriminate between the sinners and the saints

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The visit to the Burrow brings some changes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains potentially triggering material, like talking about self harm as well as a small moment where Molly breaks down and says a very hurtful thing causing Harry to have an anxiety attack. If that is not your cup of tea, please skip over the scene where Harry comes back from the Ministry until the scene with Hermione holding him and the one in the Burrow where Harry sits down and Molly looks at him in sympathy until the italics

The way back to Grimmauld is spent in silence.

Arthur gives him a sideways glance and a smile that isn’t truly there.

“Do you want to come to the Burrow before your trip to Diagon Alley?” he asks, his voice almost unbearably gentle and Harry has to take several deep breaths before he nods and looks at the man who seems to have aged at least ten years.

“I am going to bring Ron and Hermione. And Ginny.” Harry replies, his fingers tangling into the soft sleeves of Remus’ old jumper to anchor himself as Arthur nods and watches him with concerned eyes, brown like those of his only daughter.

He shouldn’t be concerned for Harry.

He lost a son; he lost Fred and one half of George too.

Harry waves him goodbye and steps back into his home.

It still smells of mildew and old people but it looks a lot brighter, especially as Hermione rushes up to gather him into one of her special hugs, her hair obscuring his face. She hasn’t hugged anyone but Ron after the war, almost clinging to him in the fear of losing him like her parents who have yet to be found. But now she is hugging him, her arms wrapped around him in an embrace that would have felled a lesser man and she is smiling into his neck. She smells a little flowery, like lily of the valley or jasmine and a bit of sweat and worry. “You are back,” she whispers into the crook of his throat and wraps her arms a little tighter, her heart hammering against his chest. “I thought… I …” she trails off and steps back to look at him, her eyes swimming with a million fears.

“I would never leave you without warning, Hermione. You know that,” Harry whispers and carefully tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers still a little shaky from all the memories, from the accusations and from the way Malfoy thanked him before he left.

“You almost did.”

Her voice is trembling but firm and she plays with the sleeves of his jumper, pulls them up and her fingers stroke the scars that stretch across Harry’s arm. “I do not want… I never want to see you like that again. Hopeless, lost. That is not you, Harry. You left everything behind. You sacrificed yourself. You lost so much. We all did. But in the end we have each other. We have sunny days to look forward too, rainy days, studious days, Dean and Seamus moving in together and almost burning their flat down.”

She giggles into his jumper and her fingertips stroke the brooch resting over his heart, her touches mapping out the wings of the small bird. “You should appreciate each day as it comes, Harry. Life is now. In this moment, we are alive. And we should stay that way. It’s the least we can do to honour those who fought alongside us, before us, behind the lines, ahead of them, against the Darkness closing in. We are the ones who are alive.”

Her voice is so soft, but almost as fierce as he remembers it to be and he has to smile into her hair, his fingers gently playing with it in a way that he knows will not make her shake in his arms and push him away. “What would I do without you, Hermione? Probably be dead or lost in a ditch somewhere.”

They walk back to the others, Hermione’s fingertips still resting on his arm, on his hand, almost as if to reassure herself that he is still there and won’t vanish the second her eyes stray away from him. He wants to roll his eyes but he knows that she means well. She is the one who found him after all, found him in a moment where everything seemed lost and hopeless, and the darkness kept inching closer, reaching out and whispering about failure. She held him, her touch shaky and fragile but she was there when he fell apart without crying.

Slowly they all leave, filing out with hugs and whispers, Luna wishing Harry a soft good luck before she vanishes and leaves Ginny behind, who is still pale but looks better than she did the day she arrived.

“Arthur wants us to visit.” Harry finally breaks the silence and looks at Ron, Hermione and Ginny but mostly at the siblings, who both nod and pale but stay firm. Ginny sleeps next to Harry that night, comforting warmth, but there is nothing between them. A dull throb reminds Harry of what once was and never will be again and somehow he is happy, he is happy that they are both free. He would be too much for her, too quiet, too guilt-ridden, too caught up in the memories of fire and death and ruin. She is too, trapped in her dreams of voices whispering in her head, of slithering scales, of shadows in the darkness of her mind. They both know how it feels to have someone else inside your head. But they know that they are not meant to be. Maybe in another universe they are happy together and raising children named after the people they lost in the war but in this reality they are sleeping side by side -if Harry could actually fall asleep, that is- and nothing is between them but a bond of siblings, of friendship.

The next morning is a calm one, but it is a calm before the storm. The Prophet reports about the Trial and the accusations against Harry –of course they do, it is their favourite pastime to drag Harry through the mud, seek desperately for a crack in his heroic image. They wouldn’t have to search that much. There are cracks right underneath the surface, darkness chasing him down every night to the point that he is afraid to breathe.

Ginny takes Harry’s hand and jolts him out of the direction his thoughts, a gentle smile on her lips, her fingers carefully caressing the back of his hand, squeezing it. His heart jolts but he swallows and just smiles back at her. She is not his anymore; he has to remember that. It is part of his journey through this mess called growing up and becoming an adult.

After breakfast they floo to the Burrow and are immediately swept up in hugs by Molly. Harry doesn’t feel like he deserves it as he stumbles right out of the Floo into Molly’s arms. She smells of warmth and home but as soon as he lets her go, he can see the deep circles underneath her eyes that are tinged with sadness and tiredness. The whole house is so silent, the air so thick with loss that Harry can barely breathe.

Percy is sitting at the table, pale and his hair sticking up worse than ever; Bill and Fleur beside him, her smile gentle when she looks at Harry and he does not deserve it, he does not. Charlie looks up from the Prophet and shoots them all a little wave and then there is George.

Merlin, George.

He looks so utterly lost, his clothes too big for his frame, his hand clutching something underneath the jumper.

And Harry sees it right away. The clock on the fireplace only has eight arms left, the ninth one gone, fallen off as soon as the life belonging to that arm ended. And now George has it, hanging around his neck like a lifeline, like a noose. He looks like a shadow of himself, the hole in his head deep and dark and never filled. He didn't want the healers to, he practically begged them to let it be. "So I don't see him in the mirror, when I look," he had reasoned, his voice ragged and cracking.

Harry feels awful as he sits down and fiddles with the ends of his shirt, his nails snagging on the material but he tries to keep calm, to ignore the emptiness where Fred's seat used to be, tries to ignore the way Molly looks at him, with pity and sadness in her eyes.

He does not deserve it. He does not deserve her sympathy.

And it happens. Of course it happens because life sometimes is unfair and takes away something good, something warm.

Molly looks at him, really looks and her eyes are red-rimmed and glazed with unshed tears. "Why?" she whispers and her voice breaks, spills like shards, ripping him apart. "Why did you save them when you couldn't save my Fred? It is because of you, that my son had to die."

The words hammer into him, make him choke. His sight goes blurry and he can barely breathe. His chair scrapes the ground and clatters to the floor before he even notices Ron's shocked "Mum!" and he is out in the garden, just falling to his knees.

The screaming in his mind is so loud, so painful and his hands start bleeding before he notices that his nails are digging into the palms of his hands.

_It is your fault, Harry. It is because of you that they had to die. Because of you, children lost their parents, siblings lost each other and your friends lost themselves. You are a failure. A freak. A nothing. A murderer._

"Harry!"

That is George's voice. He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be here, his hand on Harry's shoulder, guiding him back from the darkness into the light. He has lost his brother because of Harry, because of the war he pulled them all into. He should be inside, with his family. He still has one.

"I don't blame you for Fred's death, you know? You shouldn't blame yourself for things people did voluntarily. He went into battle knowing that he would probably die, knowing that he would probably never see his family again. So don't listen to mum. Grief makes you say terrible things." Fred's voice is so calm, his fingers so warm on Harry's shoulder, so gentle and he does not deserve it. "He died laughing, you know? At one of Percy's jokes. I think that is the way he would have wished to go." His voice breaks and Harry can feel his fingers shake and decides to divulge a secret himself.

"That is how Sirius died too, you know? I think they are having a grand time together, wherever they are," Harry whispers and his fingers comb through the grass, a very small smile on his lips, so small that it is almost not noticeable. 

"I bet," George says and his smile is shaky but _there_ and then he looks at Harry. "You are the only one who could ever differentiate us. How did you do that?" he almost demands and there is something in his eyes, something like mischief, something Harry hasn't seen in a long time and even though George still is too thin and his hair is greasy, he gently pokes him and grins, a grin that hurts but is healing in a way.

"Secret of the trade," he shoots back and then suddenly it is like a dam is broken and George is tickling him, shouting about how he should surrender it, holding him as he giggles and pants for mercy.

And all of a sudden George is crying. He sits in Harry's lap and just starts crying, so hard that his shoulders start to shake and Harry's shirt gets soaked through but he doesn't care, just holds him and wishes that he could cry too.

"You are nothing but a hero, Harry," George finally croaks and looks into Harry's eyes, his own red-rimmed and tearstained. "Even though you hate it when people call you that, you are. Even as a first grader you were always so heroic and gentle and kind and..."

He trails off and cups Harry's cheek, his fingers gentle and shaking, his voice barely a whisper. "May I kiss you, Harry?" he asks, his voice careful and his eyes hesitant and  _oh_ this is something that Harry never considered but he nods slowly, licking his lips.

"I- before we kiss. I like you. But not in that way," he clarifies and looks into George's eyes, swallowing heavily.

"That is so you. Considerate until the very end. You should've been a Hufflepuff," George jokes and before Harry can protest, he leans forward and kisses him, breathing shaky and his hand gliding into Harry's long hair. It is something that blurs out the world for a second and focuses it perfectly at the same time. His heart gives a small jolt and finally, finally the image of Ginny in her Quidditch gear, her hair like a banner behind her, vanishes from his brain.

 


	5. He said, son, when you grow up; would you be the saviour of the broken, the beaten and the damned?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first steps towards healing are a slippery, uneven slope but nobody has to walk them alone  
> Harry luckily has help and yet again something moves, small steps, the smallest flutter of butterfly wings
> 
> This is only the start

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took so long to write and yet it is very short and it made me so so anxious to write it bc it is a sensitive topic
> 
> I hope you like it :)
> 
> And if you or a loved one is in this position just know that you can seek help
> 
> You are not alone

“You have every right to be mad at her, Harry. Grief and pain and loss indeed make you say terrible things but her behaviour was uncalled for,” Healer Lovett says, looking at Harry through his sophisticated gold-rimmed glasses. He is a tall man, not as imposing as Minister Shacklebolt, even a bit gangly in figure but he has a lot of charisma and very piercing eyes. A strange yellow, almost resembling amber Harry only has seen in Madam Hooch or… or Hedwig. His hands clench briefly but he remembers to breathe deeply, tries to relax before his wild magic has the chance to go rogue again.

“Very good. You are making progress with the techniques I taught you,” his healer remarks and rakes a hand through his auburn curls streaked with grey and shoots him a smile that is by no means patronising or condescending, just filled with warmth and patience.

Harry likes him a lot for it. In fact it is one of the reasons why he chose Healer Lovett when it was time to seek out something like a therapist. He couldn’t be hunted by the ghosts of the past anymore. They followed him into his dreams, crept along his field of vision even during the day, made him cry out and scream and finally drove him to the brink of nearly giving up.

But after a suggestion made by Neville of all people (he should have known it would be Neville suggesting something like it in the first place) during the great cleaning siege of Grimauld, he went to St. Mungo’s, ready to register himself. Of course people were watching him, of course they were gossiping but he was way past the point of giving a fuck, wearing his purple polish almost like battle armour, clad in one of Hermione’s blouses that flare out and made him feel strangely pretty. Who said that only women could be pretty? Luckily Hermione and him are roughly the same size and even though she looked at him with a puzzled expression she lent him her blouse.

So he is fine with people staring at him because he is wearing a blouse, not a dress shirt. It is a million times better than them staring at him because of his scar or because of the fact that he is the Boy Who Lived. So, he registered for a Healer, for someone to help him because stubbornness and clamping up do not help in the long run. Like that, he meets Healer Titus Lovett and his life-partner Healer Vitaly Pietrov, both delightful men and he instantly picks Healer Lovett who he is sitting with right at this moment, talking about his past and the scars the cold, raking nails of Death have left on his psyche.

It still hurts to talk about Cedric, about Sirius, about Headmaster Dumbledore, Dobby, Hedwig… the list goes on and on and he clenches his fists as he talks about the blazing heat, the Fiendfyre, Vincent Crabbe falling to his death but manages to breathe, to dispel the memory of fire and screams and the sickly sweet smell of burning human flesh.

The sessions are difficult, sometimes so much that Harry can barely talk but Healer Lovett does not push him, he just watches him calmly and sometimes helps him calm down by gently taking his hands and just holding them and Harry almost feels ashamed that he is happy to be held by someone. But he hasn’t been hugged or touched in a friendly manner by anyone for almost 11 years of his life so there is a lot of catching up to do and he isn’t too shy to silently ask for it or just hug his friends whenever he feels like they need hugs.

He has made progress. It isn’t a lot, but it is a step towards recovery, towards maybe possible being fully happy again, allowing wounds to heal. 

“Very good, Harry. Now, I know that you are going back to Hogwarts and that is a very brave and good decision to begin to heal but rest assured that I am going to stay in contact with you at all times, be it in letters or the occasional check-up through the Floo network,” Healer Lovett concludes this session with a smile and a nod into Harry’s direction. “Now off you go.”

It is a rather sunny day when Harry steps out of Healer Lovett’s office; the sun is spilling through the windows with rays that warm the floors and the walls made from stone. Another spider is gently spinning her net beside Harry’s head, not a care in the world, maybe just enjoying the sun like he is. It is calming in a way that is almost meditative.  
He is so focused on the spider that he barely notices the person stepping out of the office a bit further down the hallway; but then very light blond hair glints in the sun and it basically urges him to turn around as he is tuned to that colour, has been for almost a year.

“Malfoy?” he almost calls out, but decides to say the name in a way that isn’t loud but carries anyway and the blond head whips around, grey eyes widen almost comically and a pale face grows even paler but he stands his ground, even squaring his chin in a way that is so unusual to a scion of a noble and ancient house that something like a smile flits across Harry’s face before he remembers who the young man in front of him is.

“Potter,” Malfoy replies, the drawl of his youth clear through all the tiredness and it brings back memories, both painful and frustrating. “Fancy seeing you here. Wouldn’t have thought that you of all people needed therapy but I guess that I am not one to judge.”  
His grey eyes flit over Harry’s form in Hermione’s blouse, his slightly tensing jaw and the way his eyes are focused. “My Mind Healer just told me that apologising to all the people I have wronged would be a good start to my healing process,” he explains and sounds vaguely bored and Harry cannot fathom why a git like Malfoy still has the power to rile him up like this. “So. My most sincere apologies, Potter. And many thanks for helping my family and me. And for saving my life.”

Harry can see the annoyed, almost petulant look on Malfoy’s face as he looks at Harry, almost as if he is expecting him to do something. “Fine,” Harry finally replies after a moment of very tense silence. “I accept your apology. But only pro forma. Apologise to my friends as well if you really mean it.”  
His voice is calm even though Malfoy is bristling like an angry cat until something like a smirk blooms on his pale face and he nods, a languid, almost congratulating nod. “Thought like a Slytherin,” Malfoy remarks before he swishes out, leaving through the floo.

What the actual fuck.

The visit he paid his Healer today leaves him reeling with discoveries. Malfoy is actually with a Healer too and seems to visit him quite frequently. No wonder though. The war leaves scars on all those who fight. Even those who are your opponents, the enemy, be it mentally or physically. And even if Harry won and some see his weekly visits as some sort of giving up, as showing that he is weak, he wants to fight the demons inside his head. It is never weak to search for help, even if you are a very stubborn Gryffindor.

At home he sits down and just stares at the wall for a while, figuring out patterns and levelling his breathing. Everyone is gone and still Harry does not feel alone. He has reminders, like Hermione’s blouse and the red flowers blooming along the wall, expertly painted by Luna and Ginny (but mostly Luna), some leftovers from the meal they all cooked yesterday, a bit chaotic and a bit messy but it smells of friendship, love and tomato sauce.

The situation should have been tense with everything that happened with Molly but it wasn’t, Ron and Ginny were still there, still chopping and cooking like the rest of them.

“She’ll come around, mum will. I promise, Harry. She’s just… I reckon seeing you brought it all back,” Ron had reassured him while chopping onions manually and trying his hardest not to cry. “Valiant. A true Gryffindor.” It was said in a joking tone and Harry promptly had his hair ruffled and was shoved back to mincing the meat.

It was almost painfully easy but it calmed Harry a great deal. That they aren’t angry with him; that the family who is his in all but blood is still there for him.

A week later he holds the letter in his hands, almost stares at it, remembers the first time he held such a missile and it is still the same, even after seven years. The handwriting is different, neither spidery nor with that almost eccentric elegance Professor Dumbledore had but it is still addressed to him, to Mr. Harry Potter, first bedroom on the right, Grimmauld Place 12, London. Not to Harry Potter, cupboard under the stairs, Privet Drive 4, Little Whinging, Surrey. It is strange, but it feels good to have a real home; something of his own.

Professor McGonagall’s cursive tells him that he is expected to be back for the reconciliation project on the first of September and for a moment Harry almost manages a full smile.  
He is going back home. Well, not really, since he has one now but Hogwarts has always been his home regardless.

It is time to go back.


	6. No we don't share the same blood but you're my brother and I love you, that's the truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diagon Alley is still the same but very different from what Harry remembers and sometimes train rides are so much more interesting than you'd expect
> 
> WARNINGS:  
> implied child death, mentions of PTSD and depression and the aftereffects of war in general  
> mentions of assault

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geez, this has been a long time coming.  
> I dealt with a major depressive episode and was just stuck, unhappy and unsure of what to write anymore.
> 
> I had a major dose of writers block and it was terrible, but here I am :)
> 
> Title is from the beautiful song Brother by Kodaline  
> The music video made me cry

Diagon Alley is different from what Harry remembers from the first time he stepped foot onto the cobbled, winding path with bustling shops on either side, laughter, magic, shouting in the air. Now there is hushed voices, open staring and only some families shopping for utensils.  
It still carries the faint scent of war, ash and blood; some of the shops still have broken windows, missing shopkeepers and scorched pillars.

Wizards and witches alike are working here, carrying bagfuls of stones, knitting windows with blue sparks of magic, scrubbing slurs from walls and posters.  
He carefully steps over a crack in the cobblestones and sees the remnants of a lost puppet in the rubble. He taught himself not to cry anymore because loss after loss rained down upon him but this lone, torn and tiny figurine amidst all the rubble almost breaks his heart.

They were children when the war began. Some of them never had a chance to grow up and this is a painful reminder of all those who will never come back. He remembers Colin Creevey, a very chirpy boy with a camera almost obscuring his entire face, constantly asking Harry for pictures. Gone. Another one far too young for all the horrors of the war against Voldemort.

Ron looks at him, his scarred hand entwined with Hermione’s shaky one and reaches out to take Harry’s, effectively pulling him out of his funk with a reassuring squeeze and a smile. It reminds him of the way their limbs are all entwined at night when no one wants to sleep alone.

“They are all staring.” Harry remarks and his voice is oddly soft while he keeps his hand firmly lodged in Ron’s grip, who is not thinking of letting go either.  
“It’s because I am extremely famous, didn’t you know?” Ron jokes and his lips curl into the smile Harry has known him for for almost 7 years. He feels his own lips quirk up in an answering smile and it feels so foreign but so very good.

They are best friends, the both of them. They never left and stood by him trough thick and thin. Ron, his first friend the same age as him. He expected bullying or scornful looks but he did not expect such fierce protectiveness, a stubborn hothead and an all around wonderful friend. Hermione, bookworm and know-it-all, a witch with a tenacious will and a slightly frightening knowledge of magic, a penchant to break and bend the rules when the situation arises.

And now they are here with him. Standing side by side in a war-torn world, holding hands and grounding each other. He is so glad to have them.

Madam Malkin’s is still the same shop it has always been. The front window shows a shimmering spider web of cracks, knitted by magic and some of the robes are not as elaborate as they once were but otherwise not much has changed. The Madam herself is still a slightly squat witch clad in a very becoming mauve, busy directing measuring tapes and fixing dress robes and when she sees Harry, she exclaims and bustles up to him, squeezing past mannequins and rolls of shimmering cashmere; wrapping him in an unexpected hug.

“Mister Potter, I have to thank you for what you did for us all!” she exclaims again, her voice somewhat muffled by the material of Harry’s sweater and he feels slightly uncomfortable, didn’t ask for any of it, for any of this. His hands start to shake and he is very close to pushing her away because he can smell fire and ash but she steps away with a wide smile that falters once she sees his face.

“I don’t really want all of this,” he says and his voice feels like sharp splinters, bleeding the words onto the floor between them. “Thank you for your appreciation but I didn’t do it on my own and I am not a hero. Too many died for me to be called a hero.”  
He blinks into the deafening silence that follows and Ron’s cough almost sounds like a shot. He collects himself and manages to paste the smile back onto his face. "We just want new robes, if you'd be so kind," he continues and practically feels Hermione seizing him up out of the corner of his eye.

She nods, quickly, mutely and sets off to measure them, keeping the other customers occupied with a wave of light conversation while the robes are being manufactured. Harry notices her glancing at his many scars, at Ron's arms, Hermione's neck where Fenrir marked her and her wrist declaring who she is in the eyes of long-dead blood purists but he quite frankly stopped giving a shit some time ago.

Packed with bags, the trio exits the shop and Hermione nibbles at her lower lip before steering them into the direction of Flourish & Blotts, still very silent and seemingly thoughtful, clasping Ron's hand with hers as if it is the only thing grounding her.  
Harry is worried about her. They still haven't found a way to reverse the spell on her parents who they found in Canberra and he knows that she blames herself. While Ron is off to search for his books, he approaches her, making his presence known by a soft knock on the bookshelf next to her.

"Hey," he greets her, takes some books because yet again she almost vanishes behind her stack. Her expression is grateful but she is still silent, looking at him with her warm brown eyes that have a lost look about them. "I still dream about the fire sometimes," he finally says after a moment of silence and the lost look turns worried. "I still dream about Sirius and Cedric and I still am not able to produce a Patronus anymore but I am getting there."  
His voice is soft because he does not want to alert any shopkeepers to their presence but it seems to carry because she finally looks at him.

"I still feel him."  
That sentence breaks the silence, her voice sounds raspy and shaky but for Harry it sounds like a scream. "His breath against my neck, his claws digging into my waist. He called me 'such a pretty girl with soft skin'."  
She sounds disgusted and scratches her skin, shuddering with the memory. "Sometimes when Ron touches me, I fear that I am going to open my eyes and see that monster looming above me, grinning in victory."  
She shudders again and scratches her skin, until he carefully grabs her wrists and stops her fingers, looks at her, at her swimming eyes, the deep cracks that the war left behind.

"I am here if you ever need to talk," Harry tells her and she smiles at him. It is a teary, shaky smile but the first smile in a week.

It is easier after that. Entering and exiting shops even if there is a glaring absence on Harry's shoulder, a missing feeling of soft feathers against his cheek.

It still is missing when they embark on their eighth and final journey to Hogwarts.  
The station is bustling with children and their parents, children with only one parent, small first years with fearful looks in their doleful eyes, huddling to their parents like tiny chicks.

Hermione is holding Harry's hand and blinks against the assault of noise, the hoots of owls and the meowing of cats, the general chaotic nature of the station.  
Someone jostles them and her grip tightens to the point where it hurts but Harry is fine with it.  
As long as she keeps talking and being grounded by squeezing his hand to mush, he does not care.

Ron joins them in the compartment, people openly staring and pointing at them, one very small first year boy with a huge white cat almost fainting as Harry helps him to heave his carrier into a compartment with his equally small classmates.  
"So this is fame, huh? I don't envy you, Harry," he says and contents himself with rifling through his stack of sweets. 

Harry hums and lazily braids his hair the way Luna taught him, watching himself in the window in an almost hypnotic way.  
Dean and Seamus join them shortly after and shut the door behind them, Dean keeping an eye on it, almost as if he fears someone will pounce in at any given moment, while Seamus launches into a discussion about several inflammable inventions with Ron.

Soon after the train leaves the station and chugs away from the crowd, they sit in positions as if nothing has changed.  
Seamus, Dean and Ron engaged in a game of Exploding Snap, Hermione buried in a book and Harry watching them with a fond smile on his lips.  
If there weren't all those scars and some destroyed pillars back at the station, this would be a normal journey back.

But it isn't normal.

And even less normal is the soft albeit insistent knocking on the compartment door. They have closed the shutters from the stares that got very annoying after a while.

Everyone looks at Harry who sighs and gets up. "You all are a horde of lazy bums. How you are able to create any magic is beyond me," he mock-protests and opens the compartment door, just to come in contact with a very familiar face. The temperature seems to drop and rise in quick succession. "Malfoy," he utters and looks at the blond who looks uncharacteristically nervous, his pale face slightly pinched and it is funny how much he looks like his mother in that moment. "What are you doing here?"  
And when he opens his mouth, he says the last thing Harry expects.

"I came here to fulfil my promise and apologise to all of you for what my family and I did to you."


	7. Don't get too close, it's dark inside. It's where my demons hide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit gets real AKA the chapter in which I introduce the new conflict

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been a long time coming   
> I now have work and I had a severe depressive episode but something kickstarted me to write again
> 
> Thank you for your patience and kind comments, I shall treasure them
> 
> Maybe this chapter is slightly short but I promise that shit gets very real

The atmosphere in the compartment after that sentence is incredibly tense, could be cut with a knife and all of them are watching the pale Slytherin who seems to grow paler by the second.

Ron is glaring at Malfoy, who begins fiddling with the sleeves of his dress shirt, a movement that is so unusual for the usually calm and composed blond that Harry takes pity in him.

“We met in the courtroom. He came up to me and apologised.” Nothing about St. Mungo’s, nor therapy. Not without Malfoys consent. And Harry can see gratefulness in his grey eyes which is decidedly odd. But it vanishes behind shutters and the cold indifference mixed with nervousness is back again.

Hermione is the first who looks up at their former classmate, at his awkward way of standing in the doorway of the compartment and Harry can’t help but notice how uncomfortable this must be for all of them.

“Your aunt tortured me.” With that sentence she breaks the silence and Dean shifts forward from his position beside Seamus, is a calm, sure wall beside Ron who sits next to Hermione, his shoulder brushing against hers. Support. “She made me bleed, she made me feel like dirt, like I was worth nothing,” Hermione continues and pulls back her sleeve to reveal the word etched into her skin.

By the way Malfoy flinches back, he hasn’t seen the marks his crazed aunt left on all of them, especially on Hermione. His eyes are wide and full of shock until he composes himself and bows his head, almost looking defeated, a pose of submission, his neck pale and vulnerable. “I apologise for what my aunt has done to you, Granger. For the pain my thoughtless words have caused you. For the bullying.”  
His voice is not the self assured drawl it has been, but his eyes are the same, waiting almost impatiently until Hermione finally, after a moment of silence, nods and holds out her hand, her gaze challenging Malfoy to take the hand of someone he once considered unworthy of even touching.

Malfoy takes her hand without hesitation even though Ron is incredibly alert next to Hermione, looking seconds away from attacking him.

In fact he is the second person Malfoy turns to after he lets go of Hermione’s hand and Harry can see by the set of Ron’s jaw that this will not be easy. There are too many scars, too many bleeding, gaping wounds, too much that happened.

“Your father caused my little sister to be cursed. Your bloody Dark Lord almost killed my dad and his most ardent minion made sure that my brother is never going to see his twin alive again! How dare you presume that I would ever apologise to you?!”  
Ron’s voice is rising and his eyes are blazing with anger, his face as red as his hair, his hands slowly curling into fists. “Just because Hermione forgives you does not mean that I ever will!”

Harry briefly considers moving between them, either to break it apart or throw up shield charms but Hermione is faster than him, Seamus still firmly pressed against Dean.  
“Boys. Stop. This is enough. Haven’t we all fought?”, she implores and gently grabs Ron’s hand, unclenches his fingers and silences his protests. “Malfoy is here on probation, so please calm down.”

She has always been the voice of reason in all this madness that is Harry’s life and this time it works as well. Ron calms down and only looks at Malfoy as if he belongs to the bottom of his shoe and Malfoy looks mildly uncomfortable with the whole situation.

And suddenly it happens.  
There is no warning, no prickling of his skin, no green flame.  
Just one word that reverberates in Harry’s brain, carelessly thrown around by a tall Ravenclaw cornering a second-year Slytherin in the small passageway between compartments.  
So loud that he can hear it.  
“Why would you return here, you little freak?!”

One word and he is out of the compartment and next to the Ravenclaw, shaking with anger, the word bouncing off his brain, getting louder and louder until it shrieks and claws and cackles, rising up and up and up and he is powerless to it, falling, falling and someone next to him swears as suddenly there are roots bursting through the ground next to Harry’s hands and knees.  
He can faintly hear someone shouting his name.

And then everything goes dark.  
And everything is quiet.


End file.
